Chapter Two: Damian Wolfe
1881 Words
Damian Wolfe had everything a man could want power, wealth, and the kind of influence that made people bend to his will without hesitation. Yet, beneath the surface, there was always an itch he couldn’t scratch or wanted to. Something raw, something he buried so deep that even he pretended it never existed.
He sat in his office, the weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders. The city lights stretched out beneath him, a reminder of how far he’d come, how much he had built, and how much he still had to prove.
Wolfe Clothing was his empire, a brand that defined power, luxury, and dominance in the fashion world. It had taken years of relentless work, ruthless decisions, and cutting ties with Wolfe Enterprises his father’s legacy to create something that was entirely his own.
And yet, even now, with the world at his feet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing.
His phone buzzed. Hannah, his assistant.
“Mr. Wolfe,” she said, her voice clipped but efficient as always. “Your meeting with the creative team ran over time, and the Italian investors are waiting on a final decision about the spring collection. Also, your father called. Again.”
Damian exhaled sharply, running a hand down his face. Of course, his father called. The man never gives up.
“Did he leave a message?”
Hannah hesitated, then sighed. “Just the usual. Wants to know when you’ll stop playing around with ‘fashion nonsense’ and come back to Wolfe Enterprises where you belong.”
Damian’s jaw clenched. The same damn conversation, over and over. It didn’t matter that Wolfe Clothing had outpaced every other high-end fashion brand in revenue last year. To his father, it wasn’t a real business.
“Don’t bother returning the call,” Damian said coldly. “If he wants to talk, he can book a meeting like everyone else.”
Hannah chuckled. “You know he’ll just show up unannounced.”
“Then security can throw him out.”
She hummed in amusement but didn’t argue. “Now, about the investors...”
“I already made my decision.” Damian reached for his whiskey, taking a slow sip. “We go with the Milan designs for spring. The Paris team is too experimental this season, and I’m not taking risks on ugly fashion.”
“Got it. I’ll finalize the contracts.” She paused. “One more thing. You have dinner with Bianca tomorrow.”
Damian sighed. “Cancel it.”
“She’s your public girlfriend this month, and your father likes her.”
“I don’t give a damn what my father likes.”
Hannah chuckled. “Fine. I’ll cancel, but she’s going to throw a fit.”
“She’ll get over it.”
Damian had been through too many of these arrangements. Women who weren’t stupid they knew what they were to him. A distraction. A shield. Nothing more.
But lately, even that wasn’t enough.
He loosened his tie, rolling his shoulders. The constant meetings, the pressure of keeping Wolfe Clothing at the top, the damn expectations it was all building up. And underneath it all, the itch was getting worse.
It had been years since he let himself think about it. Since he allowed himself to think about it, but he was tired of ignoring it.
He leaned forward, fingers hovering over his phone. He already had the number.
A private, exclusive escort service.
He had used it once before for women, of course. The company was known for its discretion, catering only to the elite.
But tonight, he wasn’t looking for a woman.
Just once.
Just to see if it was still there. That part of himself he had buried.
His heart pounded harder than it should as he pressed the call button.
A smooth female voice answered. “Mr. Wolfe. What can we do for you tonight?”
“I need someone,” Damian said, keeping his voice level. “A man.”
There was a pause, then a professional, “Of course. Do you have any preferences?”
He hesitated. He didn’t know.
The woman on the other end was unfazed. “We have a few options. Are you looking for companionship or—?”
“Sex.” His voice was sharp. “Just sex.”
Another pause. “Understood. What is your charge Mr Wolfe, there will be additional fees depending on preferences.”
Money wasn’t an issue.
" 10,000 Dollars and Send me a selection,” he ordered. “I’ll choose.”
“Right away, Mr. Wolfe.”
The call ended, and Damian sat back, exhaling.
His fingers tightened around his whiskey glass.
What the hell was he doing?
He leaned back in his office chair, from the outside, he was untouchable the ruthless CEO of Wolfe International, a man who commanded respect and controlled the publishing world with an iron grip. Women threw themselves at him, desperate to be the one who tamed him, but none ever did. They were distractions. Beautiful, entertaining, but ultimately empty.
Because no matter how many women he f****d, no matter how many he paraded in front of the media, none of them made him forget.
It started in high school.
His father had expected him to be perfect his successor, the heir who would carry on the Wolfe legacy. Damian had played his role well, excelling in business studies, mastering the art of power and control. But then, Ethan happened.
He hadn’t planned for it. One moment, they were just classmates, and the next, they were something more.
Late-night study sessions turned into lingering touches, stolen kisses behind locked doors, whispered confessions that set his skin on fire.
Ethan had been his first, his first love, his first everything.
And then his father found out.
Damian could still hear his voice, thick with disgust. “You are my only son. You will not disgrace this family.”
The next day, Ethan was gone transferred to another school without a word, erased from Damian’s life as if he had never existed. His father made it clear: “You’re a Wolfe. And a Wolfe is a man who takes women to his bed, who marries well, and who builds his empire.”
Damian never spoke of Ethan again. He forced that part of himself into the darkest corner of his mind and locked it away.
And if something inside him withered, he never let it show.
Instead, he did what was expected. He dated women, f****d them, and let the media paint him as a playboy billionaire with a new arm candy every few months. Some relationships lasted longer than others, but none of them ever mattered. He had been engaged once, a business arrangement his father had pushed for, but he ended it before the wedding. Love had no place in his world.
Sex, however, did.
He enjoyed women their curves, the way they moaned his name, the way they clung to him when he took them apart. He knew exactly what they wanted, how to make them beg, how to keep them coming back even when they swore they wouldn’t. But every time he finished, every time the heat faded and reality settled in, he felt nothing.
He never stayed the night.
Never kissed them after.
Never let them close.
Because they weren’t what he needed.
He wasn’t sure what made him start thinking about it again. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was that damn itch that never went away, no matter how many women he f****d. Maybe it was the way his body tightened when he saw certain men, a reaction he trained himself to ignore.
A ping signifying a message brought him out of his thoughts. He opened the message leaning back in his leather chair, he scrolled through the selection of escorts the agency had sent him. The dim glow of his office lamp cast shadows across his desk, the city skyline visible beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. A distraction. That’s what he needed tonight. Something or rather, someone to take his mind off the exhausting day filled with back-to-back meetings about the upcoming launch of Wolfe Clothing’s latest collection.
The images were high quality, well-lit, showcasing toned bodies, sharp jawlines, and inviting smirks. He had done this before, countless times, His thumb lazily flicked across the screen as he skimmed through the profiles. Most of them looked the same pretty, toned, and eager. Some with sharp cheekbones, others with soft, boyish features. He could have any of them.
But then he attention flickered on one, the photo in front of him pulled him like a magnet.
Tall. Lean. His body was toned but not overly muscular, dressed in a fitted black shirt that accentuated his slim waist. His hair was dark and tousled, framing sharp, well-defined features, a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and full lips that looked like they belonged on a f*****g masterpiece.
But it was the eyes that did it.
Piercing Blue Eyes. There was something in them, something that wasn’t just performative allure. A flicker of defiance, like he wasn’t the type to simply submit.
Damian smirked, his fingers tightening around the phone.
This one.
This wasn’t just about s*x. He wanted control. He wanted to bend that defiance into submission, to watch those sharp features twist in pleasure and pain beneath him.
Anticipation curled in his gut as he tapped the selection button, confirming his choice.
Not even two minutes later, his phone buzzed.
He answered on the first ring.
“Mr. Wolfe,” the familiar, professional voice greeted him. “You’ve made your selection. Are there any specific preferences or instructions we should note?”
His voice was smooth, firm. “It’s b**m. He needs to be aware of that.”
A pause. Then the woman responded, her tone just as businesslike. “Understood. Are there any limits you’d like to specify?”
“No permanent marks. No blood.” His fingers drummed against the desk. “Everything else, I expect him to comply.”
“Of course. And where would you like the escort to meet you?”
"He’ll come to my penthouse," Damian stated firmly.
There was a slight pause.
"Your penthouse?" the agent repeated, as if confirming she had heard correctly.
"Is there a problem with that?" Damian asked, his tone cool.
"No, of course not. We were just under the impression you preferred hotel suites for such encounters."
It was true. He never blurred the lines between his personal life and his private life. His penthouse wasn’t just a home, it was his space. A place no one crossed into unless he allowed it. But tonight, he wanted something different. Something more intimate, more controlled.
"The address remains the same as listed under my file," Damian said. "Make sure he understands the arrangement
Damian’s jaw flexed.
The usual answer was a hotel. Some high-end suite with soundproof walls and no emotional attachment.
But tonight
“Noted Mr Wolfe .Your escort will arrive at eleven. Will you require any additional arrangements?”
“No.”
“Then enjoy your evening, Mr. Wolfe.”
The call ended.
Damian exhaled, tossing his phone onto the desk.
Tonight was going to be very interesting.
- Writer
